Always Learning New Tricks

One must always be prepared when living on the farm. Prepared for too much snow. Prepared for too much mud. Prepared for cleaning up after the flood (when you forget to turn off the water.) And prepared to use the Ewe Spoon.

What? A Ewe Spoon? What the heck is that?

Well, I got to find out what that was yesterday, and so did Bessie; I can’t say she’s too thrilled about it, either. About noon or so I noticed that when she was laying down, her vulva became absolutely huge…like, baseball huge. Pressure, not doubt, from the lamb inside. But she was also pushing open a bit, and what I was seeing told me to call my friend, Janet, and see if this was vaginal prolapse. My gut feeling was that we’d be lambing, but I’d never seen this and figured better safe than sorry.

“Yep, that’s what it is; you got a Ewe Spoon?”

“No…no Ewe Spoons.”

“Well, lucky for you I do, and I brought it along.” And with that, I was washing a ewe spoon and learning how to insert it like a lollipop inside poor Bessie’s vaginal canal. Bessie, as I said, was none too thrilled. However, it would keep her uterus from falling to the ground should she not be in labor, and that was something I’m sure, if she spoke English, she’d appreciate. As it was, she doesn’t, and I don’t speak sheep, so we just agreed to disagree, and the Ewe Spoon was inserted and Bessie left to chew her cud in disgust.

Now, you’d have to be blind not to notice just how huge Bessie’s udder has become in the past couple of days. And it was warm, too. Just the same, my friend and her daughter proclaimed 3-5 days before we’d see lambs before they hopped into their car and drove home, leaving me with a disgruntled ewe. I finished my chores and went about my afternoon as usual. (In other words, I came inside and took a nap.)

Before bed, Bessie was fine. No labor signs, just laying there in her hay chewing her cud. She seemed a bit more relaxed now, thankfully, and I left. Just about 3 am, I woke up. I didn’t want to wake up, I wanted to sleep. But that annoying little Jimminy Cricket kept telling me I ought to go out and check on Bessie. Before leaving, Janet had told me 75% of lambs born to a ewe with prolapse won’t survive if left unassisted, and 25% of ewes won’t survive. Certainly not the most comforting thought, so I rose from bed and headed outside.

But I was too late. Walking along the outside of the barn, I heard Bessie’s love cry. Lambing, it seemed, had happened while I was still fighting to remain in my deep sleep. Would I be a statistic?

Yup. I’m a statistic. Two lambs surviving the odds given to me! And Mama Bessie is doing fine. Daddy has yet to meet his sons. Yes…both ram lambs. (I think I’m cursed when it comes to lambing.) The second lamb has his daddy’s eyes, don’t you think?

Naturally, we’ll need to have a name the lamb contest. Darling had to rush off to school, but has been given strict orders to daydream in class about lambs and try to come up with one name. You, my dear readers, will be responsible for the second name.